


the little thing

by moststeph



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Drabble, M/M, References to Depression, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 04:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21220304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moststeph/pseuds/moststeph
Summary: yes it's metaphorical gay bullshit, but it's MY metaphorical gay bullshit.





	the little thing

"Jim Kirk."

He introduces himself and you see the blood on his shirt and the spark in his eyes. the little thing inside you stirs.

\--

_ “All I got left is my bones,” he tells you. He’s unshaven, raw, and has eyes that could break your heart. You want them to. The way he says _bones_ makes yours feel like there’s life in them again. _

\--

You dance around each other for a few months, pretending it's just friendship in the shoulder claps, the ornery scoldings as you patch him up after the bar fights. One night he catches your hand as you turn away and you fall into him. you can't help it. He comes into your bed and his body is a song, you the desperate listener. The thing inside you clatters against the shell you've hidden it in, throws itself against the door as he gasps, _ Bones _. You lie in your small dorm bed with the scratchy sheets and listen to him breathe in his sleep. 

\--

_ You flirt with everyone on campus, including him. with him it’s a little more real, a little more solid. There’s a pleasant weight to the way you tease him and you’re sure he feels it too. You know he does, the night you can’t stop yourself and pull everything he is to you. He lays you down and gazes at you like you’re a wonder. like you’re made of something holy. Maybe you are. As you drift off, you swear you feel little tendrils of warmth winding their way under your skin, beginning where his fingers rest on your shoulder. _

\--

it's one of the bad days. they happen still. you scroll through the articles, seeing and retaining nothing. he knocks softly at the door and says nothing, just sits on the edge of the bed and brushes your hair out of your eyes. he leaves and when he returns, he has two mugs of tea. you watch the steam curl from yours as he reads a book. a quiet presence with you. the little thing inside you turns in a circle and settles quietly too.

\--

_You’re walking by the commissary when it happens - something they’re making today smells like it. you can’t stop it, don’t have time, before the images of rotting, spoiled - plants, then flesh - flood your brain. You dash behind the building and retch, the lunch you just ate now on the cement at your feet. He’s right behind you, a worried _“Jim!”_ chasing you. His hand finds the nape of your neck and his fingers, firmly, soothingly, press into the top of your spine. _It’s all right, _he says, and _darlin, _you think. You hope you heard right. When the nausea passes and you stand, you don’t offer an explanation. He doesn’t ask for one._

\--

_ It’s the fourth or fifth time you fall into bed together that you realize what this is. This man, so good at taking care of others, never himself. You want to wrap him in your arms and keep him from everything - the pain he’s had, the pain he’ll have. it’s inevitable, but you’ll fight to your last breath and last blood to keep it from him. When you’re with him, each piece of you - bones and muscles and sinew - slot together in ways you’ve never felt before. a bright golden thread runs through them into your veins. _

\--

it happens again, and again, feeling unexpected and inevitable each time. You let yourself fall, hard, fast, reckless, damn the consequences. Damn the possible sudden stop and what it will mean. He pulls you in further with every smile, every touch of his hand, and you pray to the god you no longer believe in that nothing ever steals his joy. 

\--

He says it as you get ready to go out on a Saturday night, easy, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Your brain freezes like you're facing down a predator and he squeezes your hand, a promise. "It's okay, Bones" he tells you. "I know you're not ready to say it." The little thing inside you kicks at the walls, fed up, tells you _ it's time. _

\--

_ It slips out as he fusses with his hair. His brow is furrowed where you watch his face in the mirror, and there’s no way you can keep from saying it. He’s still as a statue, but it’s all right. You take his hand. It doesn’t have to be now. For the first time, you’re not afraid this will make someone run. _

\--

9 days later, you say it back. He grins and kisses you and the little thing inside says _yes, this is it_. it bids you goodbye. in the entire history of the universe, you think, there has never been a moment as good as this one.

\--

_ 9 days later, he says it back. You grin and pull him to you, pressing every bit of promise you have to him. everything slides into place. you’ve never felt so whole. _

**Author's Note:**

> yes it's metaphorical gay bullshit, but it's MY metaphorical gay bullshit.


End file.
